Sunshine
by ninemillionhigh
Summary: You may have an extremely not gay crush on Stanley Marsh, even though you're barely friends with him. But here you are, listening to his music, lounging on his bed, in his house, down his road, with his mom in the kitchen downstairs. Oneshot, m/m


Your name is Craig Tucker. You're seventeen years old, and your sister, Ruby, is eleven. You live down the road from the only black kid in town. Your birthday is January 25th. Your friends are Tweek, Token, and Clyde. You _may _have an extremely not gay crush on Stanley Marsh, even though you're barely friends with him.

But here you are, listening to his music, lounging on his bed, in his house, down his road, with his mom in the kitchen downstairs.

And this isn't even the first time.

As unlikely a friendship it is, you actually enjoy Marsh's company. He isn't all the bad, annoying, fucktard he was in your elementary days. Now, he's simply a more interesting version of yourself. You're tamer, you think, and that's about where the differences end.

The easy-going friendship started when, in the middle of lunch one Tuesday, you walked up to him and told him that if maybe he chilled the fuck out, you'd do his laundry sometime, or maybe just hang out.

He said, "I thought you did that Tourette's kid's laundry?"

You shrugged, and then he showed up to your house the next day after school.

Now, he's sitting in his desk chair across the room, playing World of Warcraft, and you're reclining on the ass-ton of pillows he's got on his bed, scrolling through his iPod.

"Wanna stay for dinner?" He asks, not turning away from his computer. "I think mom's making mac 'n cheese and chicken."

"Kay," you say, because as a teenaged male, you can't turn down food, even if Stan's mom is a shit cook (which she is) and you have to sit at the table with Stan's whorebag of a sister (which she is). You wait an acceptable amount of time before changing the topic of conversation without looking like you have a mild case of ADHD. "Most of your music sucks."

Stan quits his game, spins in his chair to face you, and says, "Does not!"

You glance meaningfully at his iPod, then back at him. "Does too."

Stan doesn't say anything for a whole minute, just staring at you, and you think that he might _actually _be offended, until he says, "Lemme see it."

You say, "No, dude."

"Goddamnit, Craig, just let me see the thing!" He says, and his face is slowly turning red. You contemplate withholding the iPod for another few minutes, but Stan looks like he's about to cry, so you hand it over.

He scrolls through the songs, glances at you nervously a couple more times, plugs his iPod into a speaker, and presses play.

_You Are My Sunshine_ by the Civil Wars starts playing, and you listen to the whole thing without saying a word.

It finally ends, and some Katy Perry shit starts playing. Stan hastily turns down the volume. "So?"

You didn't expect him to ask for feedback on the song, so you frown and say the first thing that comes to mind. "Depressing."

"What?" Stan explodes, grabbing his hair, and you're a little shocked.

"Have you even listened to the words, Stan?"

He deflates a little. "Not really… But I mean, the title… Dude…"

You don't say anything and he stands up, face red as a firetruck, and yells, "Here I am, trying to romantically tell you that I sorta wanna fuck you and kiss you and shit, and all you can say is 'depressing'! What the fuck, Craig?"

You think about mentioning that his timing is less than great (he just got finished playing WoW, after all) but you keep that to yourself.

You crack a smile (which is admittedly small, but it's the thought that counts) and say, "It's mutual, dude, chill out."

"What are you even-?" He stops and pauses, confusion evident on his face. "Mutual? Like… mutual?"

"Like, mutual, Stan. Wake the fuck up."

He smiles. "Okay."

For a few minutes, you just stare at each other, until he says, "What next?"

"Fuck if I know," you say, and get yourself up. You stand in front of Stan for a second, awkwardly looking at his lips, until he presses his lips to yours.

You forget to breathe and end up pulling away to try to figure out how to pull air to your lungs. His eyes, directly across from yours since you're nearly the same height, are looking at you like you're a tiny bit retarded.

"The fuck are you staring at, asshole?" you bite at him, and are honestly surprised at his reply.

"My boyfriend."

You don't _exactly_ remember agreeing to _this_ specific request, but like the saying goes, don't make a good thing go away while its good, 'cause then it won't be—

Fuck it.

You're lost for an actual reply, and so you just kiss him.

Eventually, your hands are bunched up in his shirt, and his fingers are tucked neatly in your pockets, occasionally pulling your hips closer (debatable if 'closer' is possible, you think). His tongue is poking around in your mouth, and you open your mouth a tiny bit wider, and _pop!_

Your fucking rubber band for your braces just whipped the shit out of your mouth and Stan's tongue.

"Ow, man," he says, trying to look at his tongue. "Is it okay?"

You inspect his tongue, find nothing wrong, and nod. "Sorry, dude."

"Fuck your punk-ass teeth, man. Why'd they have to be so… crooked?"

He looks in your mouth, and you grin. "Dunno. I got colors on them though. Cool, right?"

"Blue and black. Craig, I am unsurprised."

"Whatever. When's food done?"

"What?"

"You invited me for dinner, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Stan takes a hand out of your pocket to scratch his head, realizes you're both still chest-to-chest, and kisses you again, but keeps his tongue to himself in fear of the other band still in your mouth. "Let's go see."

You break apart and consider taking Stan's hand, but decide that smacking his ass and following him closely is about as romantic as you should get.

Stan says, "Fuck, Craig," and grins at you.

You say, "After dinner, maybe."

an:  
>Ending fail. D:<br>(song, game, etc. not mine.)


End file.
